The Best Friend (2 page)

Becka's heart was pounding. She shifted uncomfortably in the seat. Outside, the wind roared, piling more snow up against the windshield.

Don't cry,
she told herself again.

Be cool. For once in your life, be cool.

“I think we shouldn't go out anymore.” There. I said it.

“Huh?”

She turned to see his startled expression.

“You heard me.”

He giggled. That hideous, inappropriate giggle again. He moved his hands on the steering wheel, circling them around and around.

“I think we should start seeing other people,” Becka added, her voice shaking.

Don't cry.

“Okay,” he said. His face became a blank—no expression at all. “No problem.”

She suddenly felt she had to explain. “I think you're a great guy, Eric, but—”

He raised a hand to stop her. His expression remained a blank. “I said no problem. I'll take you home, Becka.”

He raised the collar of his leather bomber jacket. Then he turned the key in the ignition. The car hesitated a second before starting up.

He's certainly being cool about this, Becka thought, chewing the end of her thumb and staring straight ahead.

I'm a nervous wreck.

You're
always
a nervous wreck, she told herself.

If only her heart would stop pounding so hard. She could feel her pulse throb at her temples.

He switched on the wipers. They pushed the light fresh snow off the windshield, allowing the blackness of the night to fill the car. The headlights cut a tunnel through the darkness, illuminating the large, falling flakes.

“I'm sorry—” Becka started.

“No problem,” Eric repeated. He lowered his foot on the gas pedal, and the car slid out onto the snow-covered road.

Does he have to keep saying that?

He doesn't seem hurt at all, Becka thought, more than a little disappointed.

She had hoped it would go easily. But not
this
easily.

She didn't want a fight.

It seemed that they'd done nothing but fight for weeks. Every discussion turned into a fight. Every time they went out, they found themselves arguing. Or just bickering.

That was one reason Becka decided to break up with Eric.

Bill Planter was the other reason.

She had no intention of bringing up Bill tonight.

Staring out at the silent, falling snow, Becka thought about Bill. She wondered where he was, what he was doing.

Maybe I'll drive over to his house in the Old Village, she thought. Just drop in on him. Mention that I broke up with Eric.

No. No way. Forget that idea.

Her parents would murder her if they even suspected
she was thinking about dating Bill again. They were so relieved, so grateful when Becka had dumped Bill and started going out with Eric.

But Eric was so immature. Always picking fights. Always giggling. Always grabbing at her, pawing her.

She just hadn't been able to get Bill out of her mind.

She turned to Eric. His eyes were focused straight ahead on the road. Caught in the glare of the headlights, the snow seemed to be swirling in every direction now.

“Don't be mad at me,” Becka said softly.

“I'm not,” Eric told her. He shrugged.

The shrug, so casual, so cool, made her angry.

I guess he wanted to break up too, she thought. I guess he's glad.

It wasn't what she had expected.

She hadn't expected that shrug. As if all the weeks they'd been going together were nothing.

Something to shrug off in a second.

Now she was angry. And upset.

Why do I always have to take things more seriously than everyone else? she wondered.

By the time he turned onto Fear Street and pulled up her driveway, she was trembling. She pushed open her door. A blast of cold air invaded the car at once.

“See you in school,” Eric said brightly. “It's been real.”

So cruel, Becka thought miserably.

He didn't care about me at all.

She slammed the car door behind her. He didn't wait for her to go into her house. He backed down the drive and was gone while she still stood searching her jeans pocket for her keys.

Her thoughts swirled in crazy directions, like the falling snow.

I can't go inside yet. I'm too upset.

She had the keys to her parents' car with her house key.

I'll go see Bill.

No, I'll just drive for a bit. Try to calm myself down.

She headed for the garage, her boots crunching the fresh snow. She slowly pulled the overhead door up, raising it as quietly as she could so her parents wouldn't hear.

A few seconds later she backed out of the drive, the headlights off, then roared off down Fear Street, the tires skidding beneath her.

The snow is so pretty, she thought, clicking on the headlights, leaning forward to peer out the windshield. I'll just drive around town, then come back.

Her heart was still racing. Her stomach felt as if it had been tied in knots.

I was so nervous about breaking up with Eric, she thought, turning onto the Mill Road. And now that I've done it, I'm even more nervous.

It doesn't make sense.

But that's just the way I am, Becka realized. I always feel more nervous after something happens.

Face it, kid, she told herself, you're nervous. Period.

I've got to call Bill, she thought. I've got to call Trish and Lilah too.

They'll be surprised that I broke up with Eric.

More surprised than Eric, she thought unhappily.

She pictured his shrug again. The blank, uncaring look on his face.

Who
needs
him? she thought.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't see the four-way stop in time.

When the side of the red Corsica appeared just ahead of her in the windshield, it was too late.

Becka gasped and hit the brakes. Her car slid hard into the other car.

She closed her eyes against the crunch of metal and shattering glass.

“I
can't believe you didn't get a scratch!” Trish exclaimed.

“I wasn't going that fast,” Becka replied. “Because of the snow. Our car wasn't even that badly messed up. Just one headlight got smashed.”

“You were so lucky,” Lilah said.

“Well .. . I wouldn't exactly call it lucky,” Becka told them. “My dad really yelled at me for taking the car without permission.”

Trish and Lilah tsk-tsked.

It was the next afternoon, a bright, blue-skied Saturday, the ground covered with snow, still fresh and white. Becka and her two friends were upstairs in Becka's room, warm and comfortable, the old radiator against the wall making hissing sounds.

Becka, dressed in black yoga pants and an oversize blue wool pullover, sat on her bed, back pressed against the wall, legs crossed. She was knitting furiously,
a ball of olive green yarn in her lap. “I'll never get this sweater finished by Christmas,” she muttered.

“Becka, who's it a present for?” Lilah asked, raising her head from the shaggy white carpet where she lay on her stomach, flipping through an old copy of
Teen.

“My cousin. Ow!” Becka cried. “I poked myself.” She held up her finger to examine the small, bright red circle of blood. “Now I'm going to drip on the sweater.”

She tossed the knitting down and scrambled over to her dresser to get a tissue.

“I knit to calm me down, but it doesn't seem to be working today,” Becka told them, pressing the tissue against the cut. “Every Christmas my cousin Rachel and I knit sweaters for each other. Hers is always perfect, with these perfect little stitches, and perfect little patterns, and mine .. .” Her voice trailed off.

“Take it easy,” Lilah said, closing the magazine and rolling onto her back, her hands under her head. Lilah wore a maroon-and-white Shadyside High sweatshirt over faded jeans, ripped at both knees.

“You need a Band-Aid,” Trish said from the window seat across the room. She had been staring out at the snow-covered front yard, but turned to check out Becka's injury.

“How can I knit with a Band-Aid on my finger?” Becka snapped.

“Badly?” Trish joked. Her blue eyes lit up. She grinned, exposing her braces, braces she had worn for a year but still made her self-conscious. Dressed in gray sweats, Trish was short and chubby with curly auburn hair that capped her lively, mischievous face.

“Love the haircut,” Lilah called up from her place on the carpet.

“Yeah. It's awesome,” Trish added enthusiastically.

Becka peered at her reflection in the dresser mirror. “It's too short,” she said uncertainly.

“No way,” Trish declared.

Becka had seen the ultra-short haircut on a model in
Seventeen.
The model looked a lot like Becka. Light blond hair, almond-shaped green eyes, high cheekbones, pale white skin, and just the hint of a cleft in her chin. So Becka had taken a chance and had almost all her hair cut off, emerging with a sleek, chic new look.

“I look like a boy,” Becka insisted.

“You look great,” Trish told her.

“Stop fishing for compliments,” Lilah said, rolling her eyes. “You look great and you
know
you do.”

“I'm so jealous,” Trish said from the window seat. “With my round face, I could never wear my hair short like that. I'd look like a bowling ball with legs!”

“I'd rather look like a bowling ball than a stork!” Lilah grumbled. She secretly liked being tall, but constantly complained about it.

Becka removed the tissue from her finger. “There. I think it's stopped bleeding.” She stepped over Lilah on her way back to the bed and picked up her knitting. “Like this color?” she asked Lilah.

“Yeah. It's great. Your cousin's color blind, right?”

Trish laughed.

“Don't encourage her,” Becka said to Trish, frowning. “Hey, you know, my neck
is
a little stiff. From the accident, I guess.”

“What a night you had,” Trish said, shaking her head. “First you wreck Eric. Then you wreck the car.”

Lilah laughed. “You should be a writer, Trish. You have such a way with words.”

“Eric wasn't too wrecked,” Becka said dryly, trying to remember where she was in the pattern.

“Give us more details,” Trish demanded, walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed. “We want more details.”

“I already told you everything,” Becka said. “I broke up with Eric. I told him I thought we shouldn't go out anymore. And he sat there like a lump. He barely said a word. He acted so cold, the coldest thing I ever saw.”

“He didn't burst into tears and beg for one more chance through pitiful sobs?” Trish asked.

Lilah laughed. “I can just picture that. Poor Eric.”

“No. No tears. No nothing. He just shrugged,” Becka said. “Really. It was so obnoxious.”

“He was speechless, that's all,” Lilah offered. “He was in shock.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Becka said sarcastically. “Does this look long enough to you?” She held up the knitting.

“Long enough for what?” Trish asked. “For a scarf?”

“It's a sleeve,” Becka told her.

“Is it one sleeve or two?” Trish demanded.

“Huh? It's one.”

“It's long enough,” Trish said.

All three girls laughed.

Becka was starting to relax, to feel a little calmer.

“Did you tell Eric about Bill?” Lilah demanded, performing some slow sit-ups on the carpet, her hands still behind her head.

“No. Of course not,” Becka replied.

“That
would've gotten a reaction from him!” Trish declared.

“Sshhh!” Becka held a finger to her lips. “It would
get a big reaction from my mom, too. Careful. I think she's up here, cleaning the guest room.”

Trish and Lilah peered out the doorway. Trish got up and closed the door.

“Now she'll know we're up to something,” Becka said, her brow furrowed as she counted stitches.

“What has your mom got against Bill, anyway?” Lilah asked, whispering even though the door was now closed.

“Oh, you know,” Becka replied, frowning. “That trouble he got into at school last year.”

“But that wasn't his fault,” Lilah said, jumping to Bill's defense. “It was those two creeps, Mickey Wakely and Clay Parker. They admitted they were the ones who broke into the school and spray-painted all that stuff.”

“But Bill was with them,” Becka said. “He didn't do anything, but he was there.”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Trish said, shaking her head.

“But Mickey and Clay—” Lilah started.

“Bill was suspended too, remember?” Becka interrupted. “Well, my parents remember it. Too well. After Bill was suspended, that was it. I wasn't allowed to see him or call him or anything.”